


chase me, catch me if you can

by white_silence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (beyond the obvious kenma never played volleyball and some ages have been altered), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Dreams, Ghosts, M/M, Psychological Horror, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_silence/pseuds/white_silence
Summary: Anxious game developer Kozume Kenma falls asleep one night and dreams of a strange dark-haired man. When he continues to appear in Kenma's head, the student makes a deal: if he chases this ghost and finds out who he is, he will leave Kenma be.But the dream drifter has an agenda of his own, and he’s not likely to leave Kenma before he sees it fulfilled.





	1. 1: sleep-walking

**Author's Note:**

> *fires confetti cannon* It's Christmas! Merry Chrysler to those of you who celebrate it. I personally don't, but here I am with a gift (sponsored by the upcoming Season 4!).
> 
> This fic was originally intended for the 2017 HQ Big Bang, but after the whole Discord fiasco, I bounced. However, I put a lot of work into this baby, as did my artist (Serah/@silentmight) and my beta (Bucky/@humandisasterbuckybarnes), and I've been feeling really guilty for letting it die in my Drive.
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to the both of them: I cannot imagine I was easy to work with. Another thanks to my cheerleader, Grey, who supports some choice nonsense from me. :') I love you!
> 
> Title taken from (and fic majorly inspired by) Dreamcatcher's "Chase Me." There are several references to "Good Night" as well, haha.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Then there is sound, color, sight, and the boy blinks into awareness. The same hallway as a hundred times before stretches on before him, rows and rows of doors lining the walls.

“This place again,” he mutters bitterly. “Don’t know why I expected something different.”

At least there is a formula for ending up here: pick a door, see if what’s inside is worthwhile, and then jump into the memory core. He walks down the hall, procuring an apple from his sleeve and tossing it up and down.

Idly, he pauses at one door and tries to knock the plate with its number off the wall. It’s stupid, but there’s not much else to do here.

He moves on. The bits of sound he hears from under the next few doors are mildly concerning, but they’re not interesting. Nothing is, at least not until he spies a blood red door just ahead.

“Now, that’s new,” the boy says approvingly. It’s something special, having a mind powerful enough to warp this in-between space. He opens the door, finally biting into his apple as he does, and surveys the memory core.

The reels of film whir, black strips flying around the bluish-white orb that represents a person’s mind. Slowly, they fill with colors, memories appearing one after the other.

A boy with badly dyed blond hair, presumably the owner of the memories, appears in all of them. He writes; he plays video games; he blows out the candles of a birthday cake—

The boy watching it all notices something.

The blond never looks happy.

“Well, I was right about this one,” he muses. A smile curves his lips. “Time to go, I guess.”

He reaches past the revolving strips of film, aiming toward the flickering blue light. His fingertips brush it, and as quickly as he appeared, he vanishes.

The apple drops to the floor, only one bite taken out of it.

 

* * *

 

Kozume Kenma is having a terrible fucking day.

The first thing he did upon stepping out of his apartment was fall on his face, which drew the attention of two passing girls. Predictably, they laughed at him. Then he spilled coffee all over himself and didn’t have time to get a change of clothes before class started. Now?

Now his professor has called him in, looking decidedly displeased.

He stands before Nekomata’s desk, anxiously twisting his fingers together. The man isn’t making it easy for him, what with the endless silence he’s perpetuating. Kenma feels panic crawl up his spine, and he swallows nervously.

“Kozume-san,” the old man finally says. “Your last assignment… it was far from what I expect of you.”

Oh, god. Heat creeps across his face, bringing burning fear with it. “How… how so, sir?”

“It was lackluster and unoriginal. In essence, it was a copy of Pokemon, rather than being inspired by it. I’m willing to let it pass this time, considering the quality of your other work, but I’d hate to see you waste your talent by slacking off,” Nekomata strikes him down with only a few words. Kenma feels the fear turn to shame.

“I… I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time,” he hears himself promise distantly.

“Good,” Nekomata replies. “I’ll see you during the next class.”

Kenma manages to walk to the door without breaking down. He exits Nekomata’s room, and taking a firm grip on the strap of his bag, starts running. His blond hair flies into his face, blinding him nearly as much as his tears.

 _This is the worst day of my goddamn life,_ Kenma thinks bitterly. He rounds the corner, only to slam straight into someone. They stagger backward and then grab him by the arms, steadying them both.

“Oh, Kozume-kun!” A ridiculously cheerful voice chirps. “Be careful when you’re running around like that! You could get hurt!”

 _Damn it._ It’s that too-bright freshman, Lev, the one who insists on following him wherever he goes. “Leave me alone, Haiba,” he snaps.

Lev seems to notice his tears when he speaks. He frowns, likely wanting to console him, but Kenma shoves past the lanky freshman without a word. Seeing the pitying, worried look in his eyes is enough to upset Kenma even more.

The blond makes it back home and all but collapses onto his bed. When he does, the words he’d been trying to run from catch up with him.

**_Lackluster. Unoriginal. Wasting talent._ **

The boy squeezes his eyes shut. His heart rate picks up, his breathing becomes unsteady, and panic crashes over him. What if he never makes anything good enough again? What if Nekomata’s disappointment becomes his reality and he has to see that look directed at him until he’s forced to drop out of college? Then his parents would have been right all along; his dreams of developing games really _were_ destined for failure.

Kenma cries harder than before, short gasping sobs that hurt his chest, and curls up on his side. The anxiety worsens until his thoughts are a static-filled cloud of his darkest fears.

He falls asleep with tear tracks down his face and expects that to be the end of it.

It’s not. It’s the beginning.

 

* * *

 

Kenma wakes up in his bed. Or at least he thinks he does. After a minute, he can tell that something is distinctly off.

 _This isn’t my room,_ he realizes, brows furrowing. He cannot explain how he knows; if someone were to ask, he would likely mumble some vague nonsense about atmosphere and the shade of his carpet.

The blond cautiously sits up and steps onto the ground. He isn’t sure why he’s surprised it holds— the floor falling out from underneath him isn’t a common occurrence. He shuffles across the carpet and makes his way to the door, which swings open before his hand touches the doorknob.

What Kenma sees beyond his room is not the rest of his apartment. No, it’s a void. In the center of the darkness is a glowing light, flickering in time with his heartbeat. Memories whirl around it. Just like he had realized this wasn’t his real room, Kenma simply knows that is the core of his mind.

And there is someone else standing next to the core, observing it with the puzzled frown of a detective who can’t solve the mystery they’ve been handed.

Kenma’s normally overworked brain-to-mouth filter takes an abrupt vacation to São Paulo. “What the hell?”

The person turns suddenly, their face catching the light. It appears to be a boy, maybe a little older than Kenma, with messy black hair. He’s wearing a brilliant red yukata.

“Well,” he muses, “you’re here earlier than I expected. Guess you just fell asleep in the middle of the day.”

“What— how could you possibly know that? Who are you?” Kenma cries.

“Simple. We’re in your dream, and you’re not the type to daydream, even though someone with your set of problems should definitely have maladaptive daydreaming as a coping mechanism. Nah, you’re asleep right now!”

“Problems,” the blond says faintly. The indirect insult should hurt, but he knows it’s true. Besides, he’s trying to focus on the “this is a dream” part of that spiel.

The other boy chuckles. His eyes are gold and catlike, glowing in the radiance of the core. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. Everyone has problems.”

“That’s… that’s beside the point. You didn’t answer my other question. Who are you, and why are you here?!”

“Mm, that one’s trickier. See, I actually don’t remember anything about myself,” the boy replies airily. “Best I can tell you is that I found you interesting, so I came here.”

Kenma feels rage bubbling in his stomach. “I don’t want you in my mind! Get out!”

He smiles, a Cheshire grin that makes the blond bristle. “Nope.”

Frustration and fear well up in Kenma, and it only worsens when the dark haired boy shifts his attention to the memories. He feels sick when he watches them play out.

Fighting with his parents. _You’re ruining your life! You’ll never amount to anything!_

Being mercilessly bullied in high school. _Oh, it’s that freak! Look at him; he can’t even talk!_

Meeting that boy with the orange hair when he was hopelessly lost. _Wait, please don’t run away! I wanna be friends—_

“Stop it,” Kenma growls, reaching for him uselessly. “Leave me alone—!”

He wakes up.

 

-

 

Kenma paces the length of his room for a good twenty minutes. His mind is a teeming mass of confusion and anger. What the hell had that been? Was he really so out of it that he hallucinated someone coming into his mind and talking to him?

 _It’s just because I was stressed and anxious_ , he consoles himself. _It didn’t mean anything._

In an attempt to distract himself, Kenma turns to his homework. To his disappointment, he finishes it faster than he usually does, so he restarts Pokemon Mystery Dungeon, continuing the charade of normalcy. As he throws the personality quiz in the beginning to get an Eevee, he chews his lip.

 _This isn’t right. I still feel weird, and I hate it._ He picks Vulpix as his partner. _Why would I have a dream so vivid? I normally don’t even remember my dreams._ His little character is found passed out on the beach by a panicking passerby.

Drawing up his shoulders, Kenma focuses on the game with intense determination. He won’t think about it anymore, and if it happens again, he’s going to find someone to fight.

Several hours later, shortly after climbing Temporal Tower and kicking Dialga’s ass despite being nothing but a little fox, Kenma falls asleep again. His DS falls from his slack fingers and lands on the bed with a muted thud.

The same oddly colored version of his room materializes before him, and he curses. Storming to the door, he flings it open and glares at the boy in the red yukata, because of course he wasn’t a hallucination. Of course he’s still hanging around, right next to the core of _Kenma’s goddamn memories._

“Why are you still here?” He grinds out.

“Oh, wow, someone fell asleep on the wrong side of the bed,” the other teases. “Didn’t I tell you I found you interesting? I’m here to stay, kitten.”  
  
“Do not call me that,” Kenma hisses, unfortunately sounding just like the feline he’d been referred to as.

The black haired boy just smiles at him, saying, “Then what should I call you?”  
  
Torn between telling this strange specter his name and being called “kitten” for however long he stays in Kenma’s head, the blond takes a minute before muttering, “Kenma.”

“Cute.”

He scowls. “Whatever. You said you’ve forgotten about yourself. Does that mean you don’t have a name?”

“Right in one. I probably did, but it’s been a while since I’ve become this,” the specter answers. “So I don’t recall.”

“Can I call you ‘annoyance’ for however long you decide to haunt me?” Kenma says snippily. “That sounds like it fits you perfectly.”  
  
“You wound me,” the boy pouts. He pulls an apple from his sleeve and takes a bite, still looking offended.

“Where… where did you get that?”

He shrugs. “No clue. I can make them, apparently. Sometimes I drop them in random places for dramatic effect.”

On cue, he lets the fruit fall from his hand. Despite them both standing on it, and despite it feeling like solid ground, the void swallows the apple whole. Nothing of it is left.

Kenma blinks slowly, trying to process the absurdity of what just happened. He gives up after a moment; this whole interaction is surreal, like something out of an anime. “Uh, okay. Fine. I’ll just call you Red. That seems like the extent of your color scheme.”

“Red” gasps dramatically. “A name! It’s been so long since someone has bothered to give me one!”

If Kenma had listened closely to that statement, he would’ve heard an undercurrent of gratitude.

“Ugh, okay, so… will you leave if I do something for you? I still don’t get exactly why you’re messing with my memories and all, but if you could go away, that would be great.”

“I don’t really want anything,” Red says bemusedly. “I’m probably just gonna hang out here and do my thing.”

Kenma sets his jaw. He doesn’t want that to happen— hell, Red staying is the last thing he wants. Frantically, he searches his mind for something to offer the boy. An idea comes to him after only a moment.

“What if I find out who you are? If I tell you your real name, will you get out of here?”

Red grins. “Ooh, the kitten’s gonna chase me! That sounds like a plan. I agree to your terms: you find me, and I leave you alone. Permanently.”

“Great,” Kenma breathes. “Okay, okay, I’ll just get started on that.”

With that, the blond wakes himself up and vanishes.

“Red” is left staring at the spot where he had just been, more than a bit surprised at the conversation they’d just had. He’s never heard anyone speak to him like that, much less offer him something as important as his identity. The same gratitude from before warms him, burning steadily in his chest.

Slowly, the dream drifter turns back to the core of memories. Sadness, rejection, anxiety— the emotions Kenma most commonly feels are nothing but unpleasant, and it makes Red just as determined as the other to _do something._

“Well, Kenma,” he murmurs, lazy smirk curving his mouth. “I’m gonna help you out. First things first, I’ll get you a friend.”


	2. 2: emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fastest update I've ever done in my life. I should draft things more often!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for your kudos and comments~
> 
> All chapter titles are from Dreamcatcher songs as well.

Kenma skipped class for this bullshit, and he’s already regretting his decision. With a sigh, he smashes his face into his pillow. He wonders how the hell his life got to this… this utter low.

The programmer has no clue how to start looking for clues about Red, and quite frankly, he thinks he’s stupid for trying. Find someone who only exists in his head? Yeah, right. He has more of a chance of getting a Gyarados in Pokemon Go, and there aren’t any Magikarp in the area.

He groans and digs his laptop out of the pile of blankets at the foot of his bed. Okay. First stop, the internet. It’s easier than going to the library, and he won’t have to deal with people asking him stupid questions.

The first search Kenma types in is “ghost in my head?” It leads him to various pages about exorcisms and a few for psychological help. Unhelpful. He continues with “dream ghost,” which is apparently an English song. “Dream demon” gets him a cryptic blog about a floating triangle, who might just have terrifying isosceles powers.

(Somewhere in Oregon, a boy previously drooling on his journal sits straight up, hisses _“Cipher,”_ and promptly passes out again.)

In frustration, the blond tries “dreams about boy in a red yukata,” and to his utter shock, a forum thread pops up. He clicks on it gratefully and starts to read.

 **Suga-And-Spice** created this thread on **21 Mar 2018** , at **18:46 JST**

**Boy of my dreams…?**

_so i fell asleep (read: passed the FUCK out) in psych class a few days ago and i dreamed of this boy in a red yukata who, uh… told me to ask my current boyfriend out? like he basically popped into my head and said “sawamura really likes you, you should go for it!” and obviously if my infatuation was manifesting in my dreams like that i had do something about it, right? so i asked him out the next day and he said yes??_

_when i went to bed that night the guy appeared again, said ‘i told you so!” and then i never saw him again. it was really weird and although it helped me out i wanna know if it’s a common experience or if i need to lay off the energy drinks wwww_

**plus-ultra** replied to the thread on **30 Mar 2018** , at **02:43 JST**

_you won’t believe this but the same thing happened to me! i’ve recently been trying to work through a bunch of issues (brought on by my absent dad and a lot of childhood trauma a hah a aha um), and someone just like that appeared in my dreams. because i thought it was all in my head it was easier to talk to him than my therapist and i got a lot off my chest._

_now that i know he might be real that’s really awkward to remember oh no (,,꒪꒫꒪,,)_

**Poodle_on_Skates** replied to the thread on **15 Apr 2018** , at **09:18 JST**

_This mysterious person actually saved my marriage (⊙△⊙✿) He told me to stop hiding things from my husband and we narrowly avoided divorcing. I guess it’s heartening to see I didn’t imagine it all??_

**Mackerel.** replied to the thread on **28 Apr 2018** , at **12:39 JST**

_my house caught fire when i was asleep and this person’s warning saved my life._

**GUEST** replied to the thread on **6 May 2018** , at **16:57 JST**

_LITERALLY THE ONLY REASON I FIXED MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY PARENTS WAS THIS DUDE WHAT EVEN I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED TO OTHER PEOPLE_

**Suga-And-Spice** replied to the thread on **17 May 2018** , at **21:27 JST**

_i haven’t checked this thing in 84 years but aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa what!!!!!!!!! okay that’s crazy what is happening!_

Kenma’s eyes grow wider and wider the farther he scrolls down the page. The replies didn’t stop coming after the creator of the thread’s exclamation; they kept going, more tales of Red helping people piling up.

He sits back, huffing. Apparently, he’d misjudged the other boy. Seeing him tonight is going to be awkward as hell.

 

* * *

 

Kenma wanders into the grasp of the void and gingerly sits near the core of his memories. It somehow feels warm and cold at the same time. He wrinkles his nose as a floating strip of film whirls by his face, bringing a rush of chilled air with it.

“Ooh, someone has their thinking face on. Care to share what’s going through your head?”

Kenma looks up and immediately spots Red. He bites his lip, feeling unsure about how to start a conversation.

Not like that’s anything new.

After a minute, he says, “You’re not who I thought you were.”

“Oh? Then who am I? Trust me, I’d love to know,” Red says with a jaunty wink. “Was I famous? Infamous?”

“No, no, I didn’t find out your real identity. But I was looking at a forum. There were a bunch of people talking about you appearing in their dreams.”

The black haired boy tilts his head. “Well, yeah, I do that. What were they saying?”

“That you helped them,” Kenma replies, getting to his feet. He circles around the floating ghost and tries to get his thoughts together. “You didn’t show up to mess with them. You fixed their problems, like… like some supernatural psychiatrist!”

He hangs his head, whispering, “And it confuses me.”

“What specifically is confusing? That I’m real? Or that I help people?” Red asks. There’s a slight edge of bitterness to his voice. “I know my sudden appearance was weird, but it’s kinda rude that you automatically assumed the worst of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kenma replies, “but really, can you blame me? I don’t deal well with people. At all.”

Red sighs and lets his anger dissipate. “No, it’s okay. I don’t have a right to be angry with you. Do you still want to get rid of me as soon as possible?”

The blond pauses, twisting his fingers together. “Well, before I make a decision, tell me why you’re really here. After reading all that, I know there’s no way you came to me just because I was ‘interesting.’”

Red simply glances at the memory core. Kenma turns to it too, watching as it spins to reveal his memories. They’re sad little things, marred by his anxieties and fears. He hates seeing them laid before him like this, so he turns away and prays that Red starts talking soon.

He does. “Kenma, you’re lonely. Really, really lonely. I don’t think you’ve ever had a friend, and that isn’t any way to live. It’s presumptuous to just show up like this, I know. But I couldn’t leave you after I saw your memories.”

“No one cares. I don’t even care! So why do you?” Kenma spits, turning on Red. “It’s never been a problem before—”

“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?”

Kenma _snaps._

“It’s what I had to tell myself! Everything is my fault, anyway! This is who I am! Just— just a useless person who can’t even hold a conversation without feeling like dying!

“My own parents think I’ll amount to nothing. My classmates either avoided me or went out of their way to harass me. And I’m so socially inept that if someone wants to talk to me, I don’t have a chance in hell of treating them properly! It would have been better—”

_If I never existed._

Red gathers a trembling Kenma into his arms. For a moment, neither of them speak, and Kenma slowly gathers the courage to return the hug. They break apart, and the blond swipes at his eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry, I… that was embarrassing.”

“It’s fine, Kenma; I don’t mind. Here to help, remember?” Red says warmly. “I don’t think that you’re useless. In fact, you’re pretty smart. Creative too! So you have problems talking to other people— that’s okay. We’ll work on it.”

We. A team. Kenma can’t remember the last time he was part of one.

“You wanted to help me make friends, didn’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question, because Kenma suddenly understands.

“Right in one! I don’t even think it’ll be as hard as you’re expecting. After all, you’ve already got a starting point!”

The swirling memories stutter to a halt. Frozen on the scrap of film is an image of Haiba Lev, laughing about something or another.

“Just try talking to him tomorrow, okay?” Red chirps, ruffling Kenma’s hair.

Kenma starts rethinking this whole teamwork thing very quickly.

 

* * *

 

School feels surreal when Kenma returns the next day. The birds are singing, assignments are due, and he has a ghost in his head. Just an average Tuesday.

Suddenly, an arm is slung around his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. Kenma jumps and spins around. Behind him is Lev— though really, he doesn't know who else would dare approach him.

“Hi, Kenma! You look better than the last time I saw you. Were you sick?” the silver haired boy chirps, oblivious as usual.

“I was… working through something. Everything’s okay now,” Kenma says, sounding somewhat constipated.

“Great!” Lev says excitedly. He starts rambling, but Kenma tunes him out, thinking about Kuroo’s words. _Make a friend, he said, this is where you can start. But it's not that easy!_

The blond looks up at Lev and sees that he's staring curiously. Kenma lets out a little squeak and runs away before the Russian transfer can say anything else.

 _That was great,_ Kenma thinks sourly, slumping his shoulders.

He's already ready to give up.

 

-

 

When Kenma falls asleep that night, Red is hovering there, regarding him with a blank face. Kenma cringes. He didn't think the spirit would see his failures _this_ quickly.

“I told you I was bad at this,” he tries defending.

“Huh?” Red asks, almost as if he didn't notice Kenma. “Oh, hey, kitten! How'd it go?”

 _What the hell._ “Um. Okay, I guess.”

“Nice! I knew I could believe in you.”

 _No, I am a lying liar who lies,_ Kenma thinks. “So, what were you thinking so hard about?”

Red hums. “I took a closer look at a memory of yours, and for a second I thought— well, it doesn't matter. Don't mind.”

“No, you can tell me,” the golden eyed boy says.

“You _do_ care!” Red says in delight.

Scoffing, Kenma replies, “Don't flatter yourself. Any thought could be a clue to finding you.”

“If you say so,” the black haired boy sings. “Look, here it is.”

He drifts to the memory core and pokes it. Images spin to a stop, revealing the face of the orange haired boy he'd run into when he was hopelessly lost.

“He feels familiar, somehow,” Red offers as explanation. “I think I might have known him.”

“Okay, but I met him all of one time,” Kenma grumbles. How is he supposed to track down this random boy? Granted, there aren’t many natural gingers in Japan, but still. Kenma needs a name.

He files the information away, regardless. Hopefully a solution will come to him in the future.

“How were your classes?” Red asks. He slips one apple out of his sleeve, then two, then three. Kenma watches in incredulous fascination as he begins to juggle them.

“Alright,” the blond says, sitting up. “I understood pretty much everything. Except chemistry. It’s a General Education requirement, so I have to take it, but the professor lost me when she started rambling about orbitals.”

“Oh, that’s easy! Here, I’ll show you,” Red says. He tosses the apples through the ceiling, flits over to the replica of Kenma’s desk, and starts rummaging around for paper and a pencil.

Kenma stares in shock. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you, kitten, keep up! I liked chemistry,” the spirit replies. “At least I feel like I did. I got excited when you said the word orbital.”

He slaps the paper down and starts writing. Kenma squints at the characters. There’s a definition (In atomic theory and quantum mechanics, an atomic orbital is a mathematical function that describes the wave-like behavior of either one electron or a pair of electrons in an atom…) and then one of those stupid pictures with the arrows and lines.

“So, this is your Aufbau diagram,” says Red cheerfully. “These arrows denote electrons, and they want to occupy each orbital, starting at the lowest level…”

As he trails off, Kenma decides that Red even if Red can’t help him make friends, he can certainly save his GPA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a certain point in 2017, my search history was very weird, because I actually googled all those things.
> 
> Guess who the people in the forum thread are! Anyone who reads YCCMI knows I like my cameos (and anyone who reads #wom knows I like my online chats), but since this fic technically came first, it's where some of my writing quirks originated.
> 
> Kenma's hatred of chemistry is brought to you by my hatred of chemistry. Also, I don't know if it's canon that Kuroo likes science, but it certainly is fanon, so there it is.
> 
> Thanks for reading~ Please leave feedback!


	3. 3: fly high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot be stopped! The saga of goth girl songs and Kenma's weird life continues!
> 
> I know that in Japan, the universities don't have frats, and underage drinking is much more of a societal no-no, but suspend your disbelief, pretty please?

Three days trickle by before Red realizes that Kenma lied to him about befriending Lev.

He meets him in the ether, sporting a very impressive pout. The blond leans back, wondering what he’s upset about, when Red speaks.

“Kenma! I thought you and Lev were getting somewhere! But you keep running off!”

The programmer cringes. “How did you find out?”

“I saw it in the film around your memory core. I can determine the age of the pictures, you know!” Red says. “Will you _please_ talk to him?”

Kenma must be visibly waffling, because the specter switches tactics. “I’ll stay in your head forever if you don’t!”

 _That actually might not be so bad,_ the blond thinks. _He’s an excellent chemistry tutor._

Out loud, he says, “Okay, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“He always tries to start a conversation about things you like. Why don’t you ask him about things he likes?” the spirit suggests.

Kenma holds out his fingers and tries to list the things he knows about Lev. “Uh, he likes cats, so there’s one… I think he has a crush on a boy in my Literature class— he always rambles about how short and cute he is… Oh, and he plays volleyball.”

“Look at you, learning things about other people,” Red says slyly.

Kenma blinks in surprise. He doesn’t remember gaining this knowledge. When did Lev give him this information? Was it somewhere in the rambling he was supposed to be tuning out? Reeling, he asks,

“Do I just… walk up to him and ask him about volleyball? I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never played.”

“There’s six players on the court at any one time, all with different positions. The libero is the one whose uniform has inverse coloration. Judging by his height, Lev is probably a middle blocker,” Red informs him. As quickly as he says it, he frowns in confusion. “Huh. That’s weird. No idea why I know that.”

“Maybe _you_ were a volleyball player,” suggests Kenma. Now that’s a lead he can work with. There’s footage taken at matches, right? He makes a mental note to look some up later.

“Anything’s possible! I could have been a go-go dancer, for all I know,” Red says. “I’ll leave you to sleep, Kenma. Remember the plan for tomorrow!”

“Yes, yes, cats and volleyball,” Kenma says.

Red winks and the replicated room dissolves into dreamless black.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, Lev bounds up to Kenma while he’s picking at his lunch the next day.

“Hi, Kenma!” he says brightly.

“Hey,” the blond answers. Lev plops down next to him, and over 190 centimeters of awkward limbs suddenly takes over his space. Kenma makes a supreme effort to not get annoyed, instead asking, “Did… did you have a game recently?”

Lev blinks down at his hands and knees, which are covered with scrapes. There are impressive bruises on his forearms, too.

“No, these are just from practicing! I’m still not great at receives. Hey, I didn’t know you were into volleyball, Kenma! Do you play?”

“Do I look athletic to you?” Kenma drawls. “No, I don’t. I was watching some games last night, though.”

(It had been a pointless endeavor… mostly. Although he hadn’t learned anything about Red while trawling through YouTube, he had picked up several volleyball terms, like “set point” and “service ace.” Apparently, the team at their school was supposed to be legendary, too.)

“If you’re interested, you can come watch practice tonight!” Lev offers.

Oh, there’s an opening. Before Kenma can talk himself out of it, he says, “Okay.”

Lev’s squeal breaks the sound barrier.

 

-

 

Kenma follows Lev to the gym, nervously chewing at his thumbnail. He’s already wallowing in regret. How many people are going to be there? Despite what Red had said about there only being six players on the court, the footage indicated there were always second-string players _and_ coaches _and_ managers on deck, not to mention die-hard fans.

Kenma is going to die.

He hides away in the stands while the team sets up. They’re loud, _really_ loud. It shouldn’t be possible for a team of players to sound like the audience from a sold-out concert at Yokohama Arena, but somehow, they’re managing it. The loudest of all is a tall boy with perfectly styled brown hair and a 100 megawatt smile: Oikawa Tooru, the setter that consistently leads their school to victory.

He’s very pretty. He’s also very intimidating, and gives Kenma the impression that he’s always on the hunt for someone to sink his teeth into.

The captain calls for practice to start. It goes well, in Kenma’s eyes. But there are a few hiccups.

First, although Oikawa’s jump serves are devastating, his landings appear shaky. He occasionally wobbles, as if one of his knees is on the verge of giving out.

Next is just… Lev in his entirety. He’s a middle blocker, as Red had suspected, but he spends half his time doing ridiculous things that mess up the team’s flow. Watching him gives Kenma secondhand anxiety.

Finally, every so often, certain team members look for things that simply _aren’t there._ The libero’s receives go to nonexistent players, the blockers seem to be expecting attacks from absolutely nobody, and one very memorable time, Oikawa starts to set to thin air, only to turn it into a dump at the last minute. Each time it happens, the whole team flinches. It’s strange. It’s almost as if the team isn’t _whole._

Kenma narrows his eyes. Something is wrong. Dare he hope it has to do with his mysterious spirit?

He means to ask Lev about the discrepancies when practice ends and the players flood out, but the boy cuts his barely formed question off, babbling,

“How’d you like it? I think today went great!”

“Uh, yeah,” Kenma says. “I didn’t understand some stuff, but it was cool.”

Lev beams. “You should come watch more often! Oh, and meet with some of the other players!”

Kenma sneaks a glance at the team. One boy is upturning a party-size bag of Doritos into his mouth. Another pair are in the middle of a heated argument. Oikawa is salaciously flirting with one of the spikers, a stoic boy who the blond is reasonably sure is named Iwaizumi… aaaaaand now they’re kissing.

“Maybe later,” he says, and makes his escape.

 

* * *

 

Red greets him with a huge smile when he falls asleep.

“I knew you could do it, kitten!” he chirps, sounding extremely pleased with himself.

Kenma shrugs. “I didn’t talk that much…”

“But he invited you somewhere and you actually went, so you’re already doing better than before!” Red replies.

“Wait, how did you figure that out so fast? You had no idea I was lying to you earlier,” asks Kenma, narrowing his eyes. Red didn’t manifest in the real world, did he?

“Oh, I started playing closer attention to your memories! I caught them right as they were encoded, instead of spending my time zoning out,” chirps the specter. He then pulls out another pen and paper, scrawling the word “Congratulations!” in huge letters.

“Why are you like this,” Kenma grumbles.

“You said it yourself: I’m a supernatural psychiatrist! And all therapists are happy when their patients make progress!”

“Show me your degree, _Doctor,”_ the blond sasses.

Red scowls at him, putting his hands on his hips. “Can we go back to talking about chemistry? You actually listened to me then!”

Kenma almost tells Red to forget about it, but pauses. Actually…

“Explain Schrodinger’s theory again,” he demands.

They end up talking through the night.

 

-

 

The next day, Kenma gets back a chemistry test. He’d thought he’d failed, but atop the paper is a 93. A relieved smile spreads across his face. He has to thank Red; he’d never have been able to do it without him.

The game developer is in a decidedly good mood as he walks to his next class. That’s probably why he doesn’t immediately whip around and punch Lev when the taller boy tackles him.

“Please don’t do that,” he says, gently pushing the Russian off of him. “Did you need something?”

“Oops, sorry! Anyway, Oikawa-senpai’s hosting a party at Alpha Iota tonight! Me and a bunch of my friends are going! Do you wanna come? ”

Kenma forgets how to breathe. “A frat party?”

No, thanks. Kenma can barely handle a trip to the grocery store, some days— he cannot go to a party. Especially not an _Alpha Iota_ party. The frat is notorious for doing crazy things. Last year, one of their members built a pair of metal wings and took a swan dive off the roof, citing Greek mythology as his reason for doing so.

(Luckily, he’d only broken a few bones. Like… three. Three bones.)

“I don’t think so. I’m not really a party person, you know.”

Lev turns an impressive pair of puppy-dog eyes on him. “Please come! I know the frat gets wild sometimes, but they’re all cool!”

The blond would really rather not do this. He would prefer to stay at home, huddled under his blankets and playing Fire Emblem. But… a lot of volleyball players are part of the frat. And something about them is weird; he’d seen that for himself yesterday.

“Okay,” he allows. “I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Kenma finds himself regretting his decision.

Lev marches up to the door of the frat with utmost confidence. The programmer follows, visibly more subdued and nervously glancing at the lights flashing through the window. The music is so loud that bass is shaking his bones from deep within the house; the sounds of people cheering reach his ears. It’s already forcing his transformation into an anxious wreck, and he’s not even inside.

The freshman knocks loudly, prompting a man with vibrant pink hair to open the door. He grins at Lev and waves him in, taking a shot as he does. Kenma winces. Why is _this_ people’s idea of a good time?

Lev knows a variety of partygoers; he waves exuberantly and greets girls and boys alike with a bright smile. The blond trails after him, trying to avoid running into anyone. He becomes painfully aware of how socially stunted he is when he recognizes his classmates, but cannot remember their names. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kenma breaks away from Lev and searches for a place with fewer bodies.

When he spots a path to a sparsely populated area— the kitchen, not surprisingly— he almost cries with relief. Catching Lev’s eye, he mouths, “I’m just gonna go,” and promptly loses the Russian as he rushes away.

He nearly runs right into Oikawa himself in his attempt to escape.

The setter is already completely fucking smashed. There’s a half empty bottle of vodka in his hand, and his face is flushed. Other than that, Oikawa looks like a model fresh off the runway.

“Oops!” He giggles, gently pushing Kenma away from him. “Careful— oh, your hair looks like pudding! You’re Pudding-chan, then!”

The blond blinks in confusion. As his hand drifts to his hair, he notices that someone has sloppily written “bubblegum bitch” on Oikawa’s shirt. The handwriting looks naggingly familiar, but before his train of thought leaves the station, Oikawa fixes him with a look that is disturbingly knowing for someone so drunk.

“Parties aren’t your thing, Pudding-chan,” he chirps, speech completely clear. “Are you having fun at all?”

Kenma feels himself freeze. He tries stammering a response, but before he gets anywhere, Oikawa’s gaze shifts to someone behind him.

“Mattsun!” The brunet yells, and then he’s gone in a whirlwind of glitter and hairspray.

Kenma is left staring at the assortment of bottles on the counter. Eventually, he picks up a glass, drinks a vaguely fruity concoction, and dives back into the mass of people to find Lev.

 

-

 

An hour and seventeen minutes later, he has not succeeded in finding Lev (he doesn’t even know how that’s possible, the other boy’s so _fucking tall_ ), and he’s long since exceeded his capacity for social interaction. Feeling panic inch into his consciousness, Kenma starts looking for a place to hide.

When the crowd finally shifts, he spots salvation: a staircase. It must lead to the frat’s bedrooms. Certainly people have gone up there for _other things_ , but it’s bound to be quieter than the hell that is the living room.

He shoves his way through the throng and runs upstairs, ducking into the first unlocked room he finds and slamming the door shut behind him. Panting, the blond collapses against the wood and squeezes his eyes shut. Finally. He’s finally, properly alone, in a place that doesn’t smell like spilled beer and weed.

When Kenma opens his eyes, he comes to the startling realization that this is Oikawa’s room. There are alien posters scattered around walls that are painted a violent shade of pink (how the brunet got that past the school, he doesn’t know), and magazines and clothing scattered on the floor.

Cautiously, Kenma creeps further inside, his foot bumping into a volleyball as he does. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, all rational thought screaming for him to stop and leave— snooping isn’t right. But something is telling him to stay.

He goes to the nightstand. There’s nothing on it save for a beaten alarm clock and a lava lamp that looks dead. On the wall behind it is a smatter of glow-in-the-dark stars, and he’s willing to bet they trail up to the ceiling.

The blond looks at the floor more closely. Oikawa has a thing for Vogue and crop tops, apparently. Another volleyball lies next to— is that a bra? But isn’t Oikawa dating Iwa— oh. It’s his. That’s disturbing and more than Kenma ever wanted to know.

The dresser faces his scrutiny next. A set of kneepads rests next to half the inventory of Sephora. This crowds the left side of the dresser, purposefully avoiding the right, which is littered with picture frames. Kenma squints at them.

There’s an abundance of photos of another volleyball team (this one dressed in white and teal, rather than the university’s colors), one large picture featuring a cluster of attractive people with dark hair (Oikawa’s family, no doubt), one candid of Iwaizumi smiling (more sincerely and sweetly than Kenma assumed he could), one shot of Oikawa performing a jump serve (with the pink haired man from earlier dabbing in the background, ruining an otherwise professional image)…

The last photograph he sees makes him do a double take.

It’s not the expensive silver frame or the cracked web of the glass that catches his eye. No, it’s the man standing next to Oikawa, grinning rakishly as the brunet throws a peace sign.

It’s Red.

The blond lifts the photograph with shaking hands. This is the final proof that he isn’t completely crazy: Red is real. Or… was?

And Oikawa Tooru, setter extraordinaire, _knew him._

Out of the corner of his eye, Kenma spots something moving. When he startles and turns toward it, any thoughts he has are interrupted by a volleyball flying at his face at 161 kilometers per hour.

With a yelp, Kenma ducks, nearly dropping the picture frame as he does. The ball sails past him and slams into the wall with a sickening thud, one that seems to make the room shake. Rebounding and rolling across the floor, it comes to a stop somewhere near the other ball.

Kenma lifts his face to see Oikawa in front of him, his arms still raised in the position of a jump serve. Dimly, he wonders just how talented the other boy is to be able to hit a service ace while drunk and trembling with rage.

“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. In. My. Room.” Oikawa growls. Every word is pointed and furious. He stalks toward the blond and rips the photograph out of his hand.

Normally, Kenma would stutter and cower in terror. But now he’s tipsy and he’s finally gotten a proper lead on his insane investigation, so he blurts, “I’m sorry, just— please, tell me who that boy is! The one in the picture!”

The brunet freezes. He gasps, and for a second, Kenma thinks he sees his eyes grow wide and haunted. Then the older boy is back to his fury.

“That is literally none of your fucking business,” Oikawa says. He’s shaking again, but now it’s tinged with fear. “Get out.”

“Wait—”

“Get out!”

Kenma yelps, fleeing before the brunet actually kills him. He doesn’t stop until Alpha Iota is far behind him and he’s safe in his own apartment.

 

* * *

 

Back in the frat, Tooru shoves his door shut and leans against it. He’s lucky that Pudding-chan ran away when he did, or else he would have seen the setter crying miserably. Sliding down until he hits the floor, the picture still limply dangling from his fingers, he wraps his arms around his legs and presses his cheek against his damaged knee. It twinges with pain, but he ignores it.

All he can think of is that night. The blood pooling on the carpet, the bruises staining skin. His desperation and fear. Tsukishima next to him, just as frazzled. He thought he was over it.

But then that stupid Pudding-chan just had to dig it up.

 _What is that brat trying to do?_ Tooru thinks. _Why would some underclassman I’ve never seen before break into my room and demand to know who_ he _is?_

The setter gasps, dropping the picture and sitting bolt upright. His head knocks into the wood of the door, but he barely notices. _What if he’s snooping for a reason? What if he knows_ —

Paranoia rears its head again. Tooru blindly gropes for his phone and punches in a number. His call is answered at the last minute.

“Oikawa, you better have a damn good reason for calling me this late,” the person on the end of the line snaps. “Not everyone is the life of the fucking party like you—”

“Glasses-kun,” Tooru says weakly. “Someone… someone’s asking about him. About Kuroo.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “Why? After all this time…”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t know. He broke into my room; he was holding that picture of us. I panicked. Went from shitfaced to sober instantly.”

Miles away, Tsukishima Kei looks at the sleeping form of his boyfriend and feels his heart twist. He grits his teeth. “Oikawa, if people find out _what we did—”_

“I know! I have more to lose than you, Glasses, I’m not stupid!” Tooru cries. “And there’s always a chance that those… _things_ are going to come after us too. Just be careful, okay?”

“You too. We’ll end up dead if we aren’t.”

The line disconnects. A dial tone sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alpha Iota = AJ = Aoba Johsai. I'm not that creative, haha.
> 
> The dumbass who jumped off the roof was Terushima, by the way.
> 
> I wonder what Oikawa and Tsukishima are covering up~ Tune in tomorrow!


	4. 4: what

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is up, my dudes? The truth is getting closer! Hope you continue to enjoy!

Kenma bursts into his apartment, adrenaline still racing through his veins. That had been _terrifying._ He can never go near Alpha Iota again. Hell, he can never go back to school again.

Trying to calm his pounding heart, he goes to the kitchen and drinks a glass of water. Lev is certainly going to have questions for him tomorrow morning. What is he going to say? “Sorry I lost you! I was busy running away from your teammate, whose privacy I cheerfully violated!”

Kenma shakes his head. Okay, he’d fucked up. He needn’t dwell on it— he’d made a discovery. Red knew Oikawa. Now, he had to tell him about it.

The programmer traipses into the bathroom and starts digging through the little cabinet above the sink. There had been a period of time, some months ago, in which his anxiety had been so high he’d been unable to sleep without taking over-the-counter medication. The box is very beat-up (spending a quarter of a year crammed in the back of a cramped cubby will do that) but its contents aren’t expired, and that’s what’s important. Kenma takes two of the violet capsules and curls under his covers.

Sleep takes him quickly. The replicated room materializes before him, curiously devoid of yukata-clad spirits.

Kenma hops off his bed and pads to the door. He opens it, stepping into the void that houses his memory core. Red is there, flipping through the strips of film.

“Hey, kitten,” he says absentmindedly.

“Hi,” Kenma returns. “Are you looking at what I found?”

“What did you find?”

The blond raises an eyebrow. Is he playing dumb, or is he snooping through something else entirely? “I was at a party tonight. And I discovered something that may interest you.”

“Really?” Red says, looking up. “Do share. I was just watching the records of the games you saw.”

“Ties nicely with the topic at hand: if you weren’t a volleyball player, you were friends with one,” Kenma reveals. He scans the core until he finds what he wants, freezing the image with a thought. It’s like pressing pause on a movie… except there’s no remote, and TVs are a good deal more commonplace than this.

Red drifts over and peers at the frozen frame. He gently trails his fingertip down the filmy image, examining his and Oikawa’s smiling faces.

“Who is this?”  
  
“His name is Oikawa Tooru. He’s a setter. Belongs to the Alpha Iota frat and is currently dating Iwaizumi, a wing spiker. Any of that ring a bell?”

Red tilts his head, his gold eyes narrowing in consideration. “Kind of? I’m getting the impression that we got up to a lot of mischief together, but that’s it, Kenma.”

The programmer groans. “Seriously? After all I went through to get that?”

“What did you go through?” asks the spirit, letting the new memory return to its orbit.

Kenma sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lev invited me to a party at the frat. I went— and it was terrible, mind you, I’ve never been that close to that many people in all my years at this college— and found that picture in Oikawa’s room. He about killed me when he saw me holding it.”

“He hurt you?” asks Red, glaring.  
  
“Not exactly? He didn’t hit me or anything. But he served a volleyball at me.”

“Scary,” the black haired man drawls, relaxing. Kenma continues,

“Oh, not at all. I mean, he’s only the person who scored a record fifteen straight points off service aces. When he was brought in as _a pinch server._ In his _first year.”_

Red’s jaw drops. To drive it home, the programmer adds, “But don’t worry. He’s definitely not the person whose serve hit an opposing libero in the face, resulting in him being carted off the court, never to return.”

“Opinion revised: that is terrifying,” Red says. “Now I see why I might have hung out with him. I’m sorry you went through all that and I still remember nothing.”

“I don’t understand. What do I have to do, drag your parents into this?” Kenma complains.

Red shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be stuck like this.”

Kenma lies down flat on the floor and stares into the void. Maybe if he prays, it will swallow him. Then he won’t have to spend any more time tackling this impossible task.

“Cheer up, kitten!” The spirit calls. “You went to a party! I’d say that’s major progress! Too bad I don’t have the champagne to celebrate…”

The programmer whines into the darkness.

 

-

 

When Kenma wakes up the next day, he decides to skip class. He takes solace in the fact that he won’t be the only one to do do— the people who had been at that party were probably way too drunk to consider getting out of bed, much less to sit through nigh-incomprehensible lectures regarding symbolism in Shakespeare.

Instead, he decides to stalk Oikawa via the internet. Maybe he can find out more about Red through proxy.

He first tries a simple Google search. Not surprisingly, this tells him that Oikawa has won several awards for his skill as a setter. His old team, the one depicted wearing teal and white uniforms, was in the top 10 of Miyagi prefecture. But as Kenma had noticed last night, Red wasn’t on that team. They weren’t friends from high school.

He tries his luck on social media, next. Oikawa is crazy about Instagram. Kenma spends a solid hour scrolling through selfies and sneakily captured pictures of Iwaizumi before he finds something interesting.

Back in February, there was a conspicuous void of posts, save for a single message on the 28th.

**_grand_king_of_your_heart_ **

_I’m so sorry. I miss you so much._

It’s attached to a picture of several candles, floating in water. Some sort of… vigil?

Something had definitely happened that month. Did some members of the volleyball team die? That tracks with their strange practice; if the team hadn’t yet adjusted to the gaps in their lineup, to the sudden lack of people who had always been there before, their playing _would_ be all over the place.

“Hm. Let’s go look at the team’s official YouTube channel,” Kenma murmurs to himself.

He goes to the video streaming site and clicks on his new subscription. This channel had been a gem for learning about volleyball. Let’s see what it can teach him about the supernatural.

Kenma learns pretty quickly that the answer to that is _nothing._

The channel has been wiped. The only videos are from very recent games; there’s nothing from before last month, meaning there’s no footage of the old players. He’s shit out of luck.

 _Oikawa probably did this after he caught me snooping,_ Kenma thinks mutinously. _Was it only to spite me or does he actually have something to hide?_

But what could it be? Bad memories? The glass on that frame had been cracked, as if someone had thrown it in anger. Maybe Oikawa had severed ties with Red before he’d ever died, and Kenma is barking up the wrong tree.

Great. That just leaves the ginger boy who Kenma doesn’t know.

He collapses into a bitter sleep.

 

* * *

 

Red is singing to himself when Kenma awakens.

_Trying to hide something— like a sweet, crunchy, poisonous apple—  is so pointless._

_Someone please laugh at me for what I do._

_Because I've fastened my small, vain, empty, and deceitful words together, I tell lies._

_Like a red, red, red, red apple,_

_that sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet lure makes me cry._

_Past my long, long, long list of regrets,_

_is there something waiting ahead?_

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Kenma says. Red startles and another apple falls from his sleeve.

“Why are you asleep? It’s the middle of the day!”

Kenma shrugs. “Frustration nap. It’s like a depression nap, but because I’m angry.”

“Did something happen?” asks Red, kicking the fruit through the door and into the void.

“I was looking for more information. But it didn’t pan out.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

Kenma figures he has nothing to lose, so he says, “Can I just list names of the other volleyball players and see if any of those ring a bell?”

“You are free to try!” Red says grandly. “But as I’m sure you’ve figured out, existing like this does a number on your hippocampus! I doubt I’ll know anyone you’re about to mention.”

There’s a hint of sadness in his tone. Kenma frowns and motions for Red to sit down, leaning into his side when he does. The spirit feels just like the memory core— a juxtaposition of two extreme temperatures.

“I said I’d chase you, so I will. Something’s bound to work.”

“I sure hope so,” Red says. “If nothing does, I’ll understand.”

“Don’t go there. Let me start the list: Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro…”

He gets through only four players before something strange happens. The artificial lights flicker, and the whole room shakes. For one very idiotic moment, Kenma thinks there’s an earthquake— but of course not, he’s dreaming.

Red gets to his feet, looking panicked. He turns back to Kenma, trying to tell him to wake up, but he doesn’t get the chance. His whole form glitches, clipping through the floor like a corrupted video game graphic.

“What the fu—”

 

* * *

 

All of a sudden, Kenma isn’t in his room anymore. He’s flat on his back in a forest, one that’s dark as night. Beams of moonlight filter through the leaves.

Slowly, the blond gets to his feet. He brushes dirt and bark off himself, hissing when one when of the pieces gives him a splinter. This feels so real. How could it be another dream?

“Where in hell’s name am I?” Kenma mutters. “Red? Are you there?”

There’s no answer. Kenma is alone, in a forest he’s never been in, and it’s probably full of wild animals. He’s literally going to perish. A cold wind blows, making him wrap his arms around himself. He needs to find shelter. Maybe then he can die of starvation, instead of being devoured by lions. Pumas. Whatever lives in forests.

Kenma picks a direction at random and starts walking. He glances up at the trees every so often. Sometimes he sees crows, peering down at him with beady, accusatory eyes. Other times, he sees strange talismans made of sticks. They hang from the branches and twirl in the wind.

It’s creepy. Where is Red? Would he know what was happening?

Eventually, Kenma comes upon a mansion. It’s falling apart, but it will protect him from the wind. He hurries inside, shutting the door behind him. It rattles in its frame.

The mansion’s floor is pitted with holes. He picks his way around them and settles on the couch. It dips under his weight, under the verge of collapsing.

Kenma waits. He isn’t sure for what. Eventually, it starts to rain. The drops tap-dance on the rooftop, splash against the windows. It’s peaceful. Like this, he could almost… fall… asleep.

A hand falls onto his shoulder, surprising him. It has the same hot-and-cold feel of Red’s, so Kenma turns, fully expecting salvation.

It’s not Red. It’s a girl with bottomless black pits for eyes, and hair that floats in a nonexistent breeze. She unhinges her jaw, and Kenma screams—

The world falls out from under him.

 

-

 

The blond lands on his bed. Red is beside him, looking horrified.

“Oh, god, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Kenma; I didn't mean for it to happen!”

“What the hell what that?” Kenma shrieks. “The forest— and that girl!”

“A nightmare,” the spirit frets. “I caused it, but I swear, I didn't mean to!”

Kenma glares at him through his bangs. “Explain.”

“Sometimes, I have... nightmarish episodes. I think it's an effect of how I died. I never remember the dreams… I just know that whatever happens is awful. I feel terrified and disgusted every time I fall asleep— well, as close to sleep as I can get, anyway. Recently, I've been dragging my 'patients' into my mindscape, instead of remaining safe in theirs. I guess turnabout is fair play, huh?”

“But you weren’t 'sleeping.' You were talking to me,” Kenma says.

“Which means it’s getting worse,” Red whispers. When he finally looks at Kenma, his face is streaked with tears.

“I… I don’t have much time left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Red was singing was "Top Secret" by Scop.
> 
> A warning, because the med student in me can't let it go: don't be like Kenma. Do not take diphenhydramine HCl (the sleeping pills) with alcohol; since they're both CNS depressants, the diphendyramine potentiates the effect of the drinks.
> 
> Anyway. I'll hop off that soapbox. Where will Kenma's investigation take him next?


	5. 5: trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, we've come so far! Next is the penultimate chapter, the moment of truth!
> 
> You know, the addition of this chapter is what finally brings the word count above 10k (the Big Bang's cutoff). It'd be sad if the next one wasn't... uh... close to 5000 words.

Kenma is extremely distracted when he returns to class. It gets to the point where students and professors, ones he’s never spoken to, ask him what’s wrong. He doesn’t have an answer— well, he does, but no one would believe him if he said, _“The dream ghost who’s been chilling in my head is on the verge of dying… uh… dying again, that is.”_

Yeah, Kenma doesn’t fancy being institutionalized, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Withdrawing further into himself, he tries looking for information in any place he can think of. It gets more difficult by the hour.

  1. Oikawa sets all his social media accounts to private, and somehow convinces his entire team to do the same.
  2. Not willing to give up, Kenma hacks the school records, and promptly gets impeded by _another hacker,_ one who locks and wipes any file he touches.
  3. The blond searches the library (the absolute last thing he wanted to do) in a final fit of desperation, but of course, the university has thousands of books. Even if he knew which ones to read, he probably wouldn’t find anything useful in time, so he goes to class, fuming.



Red is totally screwed.

Kenma is in the middle of Literature, wondering why he cares so much about a boy he only just met, when he dozes off. When he does, he drops right into one of Red’s nightmares.

There’s more of those ghosts with black eyes. A music box plays menacingly as they reach for him—

The programmer is jolted back into consciousness when something sharp digs into his ribs. He turns and sees Lev’s crush with a pen in hand.

“Don’t fall asleep. It’s rude,” the brunet hisses.

“Thank you,” replies Kenma fervently. The other boy blinks in confusion— that response didn’t make an ounce of sense without context— and returns to his textbook, muttering about weird classmates.

Kenma bites his lip, remembering the look Red’s face as he said he was running out of time.

He has to hurry.

 

-

 

The dream room is hazy tonight. Kenma swings his legs off the bed; the floor ripples with static as his feet brush it. He squints at it in consideration. Will he fall through if he stands up?

“It’ll hold,” a voice says. Kenma looks up, seeing Red floating before him. When their eyes lock, the specter fades out of sight.

“Red?” Kenma gasps.

The ghost returns as suddenly as he left, looking incredibly tired. “I’m here, I’m here.”

The programmer goes to him and lays his hand flat against Red’s chest. There’s no heartbeat, but Kenma isn’t looking for one. He just… wants to feel the spirit. It could be the last time.

“I’m starting to forget the people I helped,” Red says conversationally. He folds his frigid fingers over Kenma’s, continuing, “It’s funny… I used to remember every mind, every memory, with perfect clarity. But now I only have impressions. Colors and sounds.”

“Why?” Kenma asks. “Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know, okay? Every time you ask a question, I feel like a fool, because I don’t have any answers!” The spirit retorts. He tears his hand away and starts pacing. “Maybe the powers that be decided I should be completely dead, instead of half-dead, or whatever the fuck I am.”

“Do you think I’m helping? I mean, if I find out who you were, will it stop this?”

Red sighs bitterly. “Can you, though? Can you find me?”

“Hey! I know we haven’t had the best luck with your memories, but I’ve been trying!” Kenma snaps.

“…you have. I’m sorry.”

Kenma takes Red by the hand again. “It’s okay. I’ll try harder.”

But he wakes up before the night is over, and no matter how hard he tries, Kenma can’t go back to sleep.

He can’t go back to Red.

 

* * *

 

Nekomata’s class the following day offers Kenma a reprieve. Instead of starting their next assignment— a horror game, ironically— the students get to visit some supposedly haunted areas for inspiration.

Kenma dissociates for most of the tours, feeling very much disconnected from his body. He’s sure it’s because of his weird sleep patterns and the stress of Red’s impending doom, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. Well, he can’t do anything if he wants to keep talking to his friend, anyway.

The final tour is the one that jolts him into awareness. People around him perk up and start chattering as their group walks up to an old mansion in a wooded area, though he can’t yet be bothered to pay attention. When the house’s owner unlocks the door and lets them inside, Kenma snaps back to himself. He carefully steps onto the porch, avoiding a hole in the wooden planks, and follows the others into a well-furnished sitting room.

A chill runs up his spine, making him shiver. This is eerily like the house from the nightmare. Only then does he hear what his class has been whispering about.

“—isn’t this the place where those students from our school _died?”_   
  
“Yeah, yeah, those two from the volleyball team! Or was it three?”   
  
“I thought there were four people?”

“Um, I think so too, but the last one was from another school or something? I definitely remember the coach flipping his shit about losing some of his players, though.”

“Mhm. Then that frat boy, the setter, was all ‘emotionally compromised’ and didn’t go back to practice for two weeks.”

Suddenly, one of the quieter kids— a boy with freckles that he thinks is named Yamaguchi— snaps, “You’d be emotionally compromised too if your friends were in a car crash!”

There’s a sudden silence. Then someone says, “Shit, wasn’t your boyfriend _there?”_

Kenma blinks in shock. Even the owner pauses in talking to Nekomata to stare at Yamaguchi, who looks stricken. After a minute, he begins to explain.

“Well, kind of. Tsukki and Oikawa-san— yes, that setter has a _name_ — knew that some of the players and one of their boyfriends had snuck out to see it. They wanted to mess around, go looking for ghosts or something. But whoever was driving swerved off the path and into the ravine. I wasn’t home that night, so I didn’t know about any of it, but Tsukki… he got worried when he didn’t hear from our friend Hinata, because he cares more than he lets on.

“He called Oikawa-san to see if any of his teammates texted him. He said they hadn’t, so the two of them drove out here. They’re the ones who found the… the bodies.”

“That’s so awful…” a girl whispers. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

Yamaguchi slumps. He looks exhausted. “Tsukki was really upset afterwards. He barely wanted to talk to me, and I’m sure Oikawa-san felt the same. So leave them alone.”

Something nags at Kenma after Yamaguchi finishes his story and turns away.

_Okay. Let’s formulate a hypothesis. Here are my observations: The volleyball team suffered some loss in February, presumably this accident, which Oikawa was involved in. Said accident was near a “haunted” mansion, and Red is some kind of ghost. To tie it all together, Oikawa had a broken picture of Red on his dresser. Thus… if I investigate him, then I’ll catch Red once and for all._

_But it’s not like I can talk to Oikawa. He already threw me out of his room. If I had to, I could break back in… no, what am I saying? Of course I can’t do that._

The blond wanders around the room, thinking about his next move. As he does, he almost runs into a clock and scrambles to avoid it, stepping around what looks like a giant bloodstain on the carpet. While he’s tripping over his own feet, the thought suddenly comes to him.

 _Duh, Yamaguchi just said there was someone else with Oikawa that night. All I need to do is speak to_ him.

He awkwardly sidles up to Yamaguchi, who is squinting into a mirror hung between framed photographs. The freckled boy smiles at Kenma, and he makes an attempt to smile back.

With a fair measure of hesitancy, Kenma says, “This may be very insensitive, but could I speak to your boyfriend about what happened that night?”

Yamaguchi blinks, his smile fading into a frown. “I mean, I can’t really stop you. Do you want to use it for your new game?”

The assignment is the furthest thing from his mind, but Kenma can’t up and say that. Instead, he lies, “No, I think I accidentally offended Oikawa-san at the recent AI party, and my mistake had to do with this… unfortunate event?” His voice pitches up in a question, and he cringes. This is the worst time for his shitty conversational skills to fail him. “I thought if I talked to Tsukki, it would help me understand what exactly I did wrong, and then I could apologize.”

It’s a convoluted, idiotic story, but it does the trick. Yamaguchi’s face loses the vaguely disapproving look. Smiling again, he says, “His name is Tsukishima, actually; I’m the only one who gets away with the nickname. Anyway, sure— I’ll give you our address, so you can meet up. Sorry I assumed you were just thinking about your game. You seem too nice to use a real tragedy for that.”

“That’s definitely not what I wanted,” Kenma hastens to assure. “Thank you, Yamaguchi-san.”

Kenma leaves the house with a new address saved in his phone. On his way out the door, he feels someone watching him, a malevolent gaze burning into his back. His shoulders hunch up instinctively, and he turns around, hoping he hasn’t pissed off one of his classmates.

There isn’t anyone there, but the feeling doesn’t fade.

 

-

 

That night, he sits on the floor of his pseudo-room, not quite willing to talk to Red yet. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to approach Tsukishima. He’s sure _“Oh, hey, there’s this spirit in my mind, and I think he has something to do with your past trauma. Can you think about it again, so I can solve this mystery?”_ wouldn’t go well.

Sighing, Kenma flops down on the floor and resolves to stare at the ceiling, but he leaps up in panic when he sees Red hovering above him.

“Where did you come from?” He wheezes, squinting at the dream drifter.

“I’m always in your mind, kitten— I’ve yet to leave you be,” he says in amusement. “What’s got you all jumpy?”

Kenma scowls, returning to the ground. “We went to this house in the woods, and it was creepy. I felt like I was being watched. It freaked me out a bit, so don’t sneak up on me, okay?”

Something flashes across Red’s face, and he does that disturbing flickering thing again. “A… house in the woods.”

Kenma watches him carefully when he continues. “Yeah. It was this old Western mansion that looked like it was falling apart. People say it’s haunted.”

Red frowns. “That sounds kind of familiar. I don’t know why…”

“Familiar how? Are you the reason for all those ghost stories?” Kenma injects a note of teasing into his voice, but internally, the gears in his brain are whirring. He was right about Red being connected to the house and accident. He _has_ to be one of the boys who died in that car crash.

“No, no…” The black haired boy shakes his head. His brow furrows as he tries in vain to remember. “I don’t know why I recognize it, but I know you shouldn’t go there again…  especially not when there’s a full moon. There’s something evil in that mansion.”

Fear prickles across Kenma’s skin, and he feels that baleful glare aimed at him again. “I won’t.”

The conversation switches to more mundane topics. Kenma could call the atmosphere peaceful, at least until he notices Red fading in and out of sight more frequently. It reminds him that even though there’s more to the mystery, his priority is discovering Red’s identity. He says his goodbyes and wakes up, tasting bile in his mouth.

Kenma swallows, looking at the shadowed ceiling. That settled it. He’d figure out what precisely to say to Tsukishima on the way to meet him— the important thing was going there as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

Kenma marches up to Tsukishima’s apartment, feeling the familiar twist of nerves in his stomach. He doesn’t particularly want to do this— meeting new people has always been its own special brand of hell— but this is about helping Red. This is about saving him from oblivion.

He rings the doorbell, jumping half a foot in the air when something in the apartment slams violently. The door is ripped open only a second after the noise, and Kenma balks when he sees Oikawa.

The brunet stares him down. “Hm. You found Tsukishima, then. So nice to see you, Pudding-chan. Come in.”

Kenma feels extremely uneasy listening to someone who had once served a volleyball at him with lethal speeds, but he needs answers. He follows Oikawa into the apartment and lets the setter close the door behind them.

The older boy leads Kenma deeper into the home, to a pair of couches on opposite sides of a glass coffee table. On one of the couches is a boy with pale blond hair and height to rival Lev’s, presumably Tsukishima.

Oikawa sits next to him and waves Kenma onto the other couch so they can face each other. It’s only then that Tsukishima looks up at the game developer, and Kenma gasps when he sees the dark scar across his left cheek.

“Well, alright, Pudding-chan. You caught the both of us. So what is it that you want?” Oikawa asks. He steeples his fingers and peers at the younger boy though his eyelashes.

“I… my name is Kozume. You can stop calling me Pudding,” Kenma finally says. “And I don’t want much. I just need to know who that boy in the photo is. The one I asked you about before.”

“Ah, yes, when you _broke into my fucking room,”_ the setter reminisces. “Fun times.”

Tsukishima suddenly scoffs. “You don’t even know his name, but you went to all this trouble? What’s the point? Is it really that important to you to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Because he keeps showing up in my dreams!” The blond exclaims. “And he’s forgetting who he is, and that means he’s going to fade away! Permanently!”

“Seriously? ‘He showed up in my dreams?’ That’s a horrible excuse. Tell us the—” Tsukishima starts to demand.

Oikawa groans and holds a hand up to interrupt him. “Glasses-kun, Pudding-chan’s… not lying. Or at least, he _could be_ telling the truth. I knew about the dream thing. Granted, Tetsun told the team when we were all drunk, but he proved it later.”

Both boys stare at Oikawa, who looks out the window instead of at them. After a moment, he speaks again.

“His name is Kuroo. Kuroo Tetsurou. And he’s currently in a coma at Tokyo General Hospital. Is that all you needed to know?”

“Yes, yes, thank you so much,” Kenma stammers, “but what happened to him? I’m sure he was involved in the accident near that mansion in the woods, but that can’t be all. You wouldn’t be so scared otherwise.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” mutters Tsukishima. “We _staged_ the car crash.”

“What?”

Oikawa turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow as he does. “That’s right, Pudding-chan. Kuroo would never swerve off a cliff like that. He was a careful driver, especially with his friends in the car. We shoved their dead bodies into that Toyota and pushed it into the ravine.”

“Oh my god,” Kenma gasps. He scrambles deeper into the couch cushions, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack brewing. “You— you killed them!”

“How dare you suggest that!” Oikawa screeches, bolting up from his seat. His eyes are wild and furious. “Of course we didn’t! Kuroo and Bokuto were my friends! My _teammates!_ And Bokuto loved Akaashi, and— and there wasn’t a person alive that hated Hinata! He was a fucking ball of sunshine!”

The setter presses a hand over his mouth and sits back down hard, refusing to meet Kenma’s eyes.

Tsukishima sighs. “Yeah, no, we didn’t kill them. But no one would believe us if we said who— or rather, _what_ — did.”

“Because Yamaguchi-san said you were there too, and you had the means to stage an accident in the first place, it’s… whatever gave you that scar on your face. Whatever’s in that mansion. Right?” Kenma guesses.

“And he does have deductive reasoning skills,” the setter sneers. “Glasses-kun, you might as well tell him. I don’t think he’s gonna leave in peace otherwise.”

“Fine. You should get comfortable,” the blond tells Kenma. “It’s a long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fun to write Oikawa and Tsukishima, to be honest. Love those boys.
> 
> Thanks for your feedback! Hope you continue to enjoy~


	6. 6: good night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind the warnings, please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the truth finally comes out. There are three deaths in this chapter, and the imagery is pretty heavily inspired by the Good Night M/V, so it's... vivid.

_Months before, in February…_

Kei shivers. It’s literally _freezing_ outside, and here he is, following his stupid friends into a house that’s supposed to be haunted. He should’ve just stayed in like he told Tadashi he was going to.

A heavy arm drapes over his shoulders. “What’s the matter, Tsukki?” The black haired boy it belongs to cajoles. “Isn’t this a fun adventure? Lighten up!’

“Get the hell off me,” Kei grumbles, shoving Kuroo away from him. “And stop calling me Tsukki!”

“Yeah, only his boyfriend calls him that,” Hinata teases.

“Like you’re not engaged in some weird mating dance with the King,” Kei retorts. “You don’t have any right to talk.”

It’s hard to see in the moonlight, but Kei thinks Hinata might be blushing. The color clashes horribly with his ginger hair.

Serves him right. 

“He’s got you there,” Kuroo says in amusement. “Oh, dude, Bo ran off with Akaashi. We better go find them.”

Kei groans when Hinata takes his wrist and drags him away. Kuroo ambles after their juniors, looking far too pleased with himself.

They find the others making out against a tree, which Kei finds disgusting, but not unexpected. Kuroo wolf-whistles at the pair and Bokuto breaks away from his boyfriend to grin at them. Akaashi gracefully peels himself off the tree, brushing dust and bark from his clothes.

“Ignore that,” he says calmly.

“Sure, whatever,” Kuroo laughs. “Alright, who wants to go in first?”

“Waah, why can’t we go in as a group?” Hinata asks. He already looks scared, Kei notices, just like the time he and Tanaka had been surprised by Nishinoya and Asahi at training camp.

“Why not?” Bokuto laughs, clapping the first year on the back. “Let’s get a move on!”

He bounds up to the door excitedly, Kuroo and Hinata right on his heels. With a fondly exasperated sigh, Akaashi does the same. Kei rolls his eyes and goes with them, not expecting anything to happen.

But when all five of them are on the porch, the door swings open without anyone touching it.

“That’s weird, but I’m not complaining! Get your phones out, kiddies; we have to document all of this!” The black haired boy yells. “If Vine was still alive, I’d say ‘do it for the Vine!’”

“You’re so annoying,” Kei complains. He pushes the balking Hinata through the door and follows the ginger’s path, huffing when the others nearly knock him over in their haste to get inside. Well, Kuroo and Bokuto are the ones shoving; Akaashi glides in as if he were a prince, because he’s irritatingly perfect.

The group finds itself in an ornate, if not dusty, living room. It’s more Western styled than anything, sporting a cream carpet covered with a massive red and gold rug, and stocked with dated wooden furniture.

“This is such a nice house,” Bokuto says. “Akaashi, we should buy a house like this!”

“No, Bokuto-san. It would be too expensive,” the other boy answers. A small smile tugs at his lips despite his cool tone, and Kei knows he likes the mansion too.

“There are so many photos on the walls,” Kuroo marvels. “Wow, they’re all black and white. I wonder how old they are…” He holds out his phone, which has been filming for a while.

Interest officially piqued, Kei pulls out his own phone— a model nearly identical to Kuroo’s— and starts snapping his own photos. It’s clear they’re the first people to come in here in a while, likely because the property’s owner doesn’t often hold tours, and he figures he might as well get something out of their trip.

Suddenly, he spots something through the camera’s viewfinder. Past the staircase, in the hallway that leads to the kitchen, there’s the outline of a person.

The blond gasps in shock and slams right into Kuroo. They both drop their phones, the screens going dark when they hit the ground, and Kei looks down the hallway in panic.

There isn’t anyone there.

“Dude, what the hell,” Kuroo grumbles. “I get that you’re blind, with the glasses and all, but watch it! I’m too expensive to damage.”

Kei sneers at him, feeling his heart rate calming. “You’re worth five yen and one taiyaki, and that’s pushing it.”

Hinata crows at that, laughing at them both while they stoop to pick up their phones. Akaashi shushes him absentmindedly, but the warning doesn’t reach Bokuto, who’s still cackling at Kuroo’s expense. Pouting, Kuroo flips him off.

“You’re all so damn rude,” he sniffs. “See if I do anything nice for you again.”

The group migrates around the room, peering at the different photographs. Some of them show a mansion in a different place, perhaps the one this one was based off of, and others show a manner of strange things. Forests, a spider trapped under a glass, a variety of different girls in Victorian dresses… the walls have them all.

Suddenly, Hinata perks up, making one of his trademark weird noises. “Huh? Did someone say my name?”

“No,” Kei gripes. “Get your ears checked.”

The decoy sticks out his tongue. “No way, someone’s definitely calling me! Like, from over… here?” He walks over to the grandfather clock behind one of the couches and peers at its face.

He turns his head, gazing in the direction of the kitchen, when the clock tips over and crushes him.

“Holy shit, Hinata!” Bokuto yells. Akaashi gasps in horror, and Kuroo and Kei stare at the place where Hinata had just been standing.

There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood.

Before any of them can move toward their friend, the temperature in the room drops several degrees, becoming colder than the night. The air hums, and someone starts laughing.

“That’s… that’s not one of us, is it?” Kuroo croaks. “What the fuck!”

Akaashi, who had been standing at the foot of the stairs, makes an odd wheezing sound, and the other three boys whip around to look at him. There are bruises forming on his throat, staining the fair skin black and blue. His terrified green eyes lock onto Kei’s as he claws at his neck, trying to free himself from an invisible assailant. Without warning, he crumples to the ground.

“Keiji! NO!” Bokuto screams. He runs to his fallen boyfriend, whimpering under his breath, and Kuroo follows him immediately. Kei, however, feels compelled to turn around.

Behind them, blocking the path to the door, is the figure his camera had shown him. It’s a girl with pitch black eyes, a doll clutched in one of her hands. She grins at them, and the lights flicker. The action makes the older boys glance up, and Bokuto swears when he catches sight of the girl.

“This place actually _is_ haunted!”

“Don’t just stare at her! Fucking run!” Kuroo yells.

“Where? She’s in front of the door!” Kei cries. Kuroo whirls and darts upstairs. The first year bolts after him, grabbing Bokuto’s arm to drag him along when he doesn’t show signs of leaving Akaashi.

“What are we gonna do up here?” Kei snaps as they ascend. “Jump out a window?”

“I wasn’t thinking; I just ran!” Kuroo retorts. He spots a room, a study of sorts, and points toward it. “Maybe we can hide in there? I don’t think she— it— whatever!— followed us.”

Kuroo slips inside first, and Kei starts after him. Then he hears a heavy thud behind them, and Bokuto shrieks.

Swallowing hard, the boy grabs Kuroo and shoves him farther into the study, shutting the door behind them. Kuroo tries getting back out, looking frantic. Kei stops him.

“Are you crazy?! What are you doing?” He hisses, knocking the middle blocker away.

“I can’t leave Bo out there!” Kuroo replies indignantly. “He’s my best friend!”

Kei opens his mouth, trying to get it in the other boy’s head that Bokuto is probably _dead,_ when the faint noise of a music box reaches his ears. He freezes, bumping into Kuroo, who is also standing stock still. Shakily, the middle blocker lifts his hand and points.

Kei turns and nearly chokes. Sitting in a rocking chair next to a desk is another girl, who is reading a leather-bound book. She glances up at the boys when she notices their eyes on her.

Then she promptly vanishes.

“Is… is that it?” The blond asks nervously.

Before Kuroo can answer, the girl reappears and claws at him, her whole arm slashing through his chest. Despite the lack of a visible wound, Kuroo collapses, his eyes locked on the ceiling.

Feathers start drifting through the air, as if the girl had hit Kuroo with a pillow rather than… do whatever she did.

Kei doesn’t wait for her to turn on him. He rips open the door and races back down the hallway. He jumps over Bokuto, who is sprawled at the top of the stairs, and hurries down them. Passing Akaashi and Hinata, Kei hurtles past the first ghost, who lashes out at him, and jerks the front door open.

He bursts onto the porch, chest heaving. The door swings shut behind him, but he doesn’t stop fleeing until his foot breaks through the wood. Kei crashes to the porch and screams in terror when a skeletal hand grabs his ankle.

“No!” He cries, kicking wildly. His flailing somehow dislodges the entity’s grip, and he flings himself off the porch, landing in the dirt. Kei crawls away, moving blindly until his back crashes against a tree.

He’s across the road. Nothing’s chasing him now. Is he safe?

Dimly, Kei realizes he’s bleeding. He presses his fingers against his left cheek, and they come away crimson. Oh. The ghost with the doll had actually clipped him when he’d run past her. His thoughts are so scattered and staticky; he can barely focus on the pain. Or… anything.

He manages to get himself together long enough to pull out a phone. Help. He needs to get help. His thumb digs into the power button, and when the screen flickers on, he wheezes, thoughts breaking apart again.

Kei stares down at the phone in his hand. That stupid cat background, cheery in the face of horror, marks the phone as Kuroo’s. He must’ve grabbed the wrong one when they’d dropped them earlier. His eyes blur with tears.

The blond shakily taps in the passcode— four zeroes, because Kuroo has always been lazy— and the phone unlocks, leaving him with yet another cat background.

 _Who can I call? I don’t want Tadashi to see this, and I can’t call 119 now; they’ll think I killed them!_ He thinks. _But… wait. That setter… he’s the best liar I know._

Kei frantically scrolls through Kuroo’s contacts until he finds one labeled “Tooru (*-`ω´- )人(*-`ω´- )” and he immediately hits the call button. Not even a moment after the phone starts ringing, the boy on the other end picks up.

“Tetsun, who the hell do you think you are, calling me this late?! I need my beauty sleep! Do you think I wake up looking like a model? I mean, I kinda do, but—”

“I’m not Kuroo,” Kei says heavily, interrupting the brunet’s chatter. “He’s…” _Dead._

There’s a confused noise from Oikawa’s end of the line. “You’re Glasses-kun, right? From Karasuno? What do you want, and why do you have Kuroo’s phone?”

“Because he’s dead. And so are Hinata and Bokuto, and— oh God, they’re all dead—”

Suddenly, he’s flooded with terror and disgust, and Kei yanks the phone away so he can violently throw up in the bushes. He gasps, choking on his own bile, and drops the phone into the dirt. The blond can hear Oikawa panicking through the tinny speakers, but he can’t offer any reassurance when his whole body feels twisted and fearful.

Kei finally resurfaces for air, and picks up the phone. Having noticed his return, Oikawa quietly asks,

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“The mansion in the woods, the one everyone says is haunted. Fuck, fuck, it actually is!”

“If I get there and I find out you’re fucking with me, _I_ will kill _you,”_ Oikawa threatens. “But for now, sit tight, Glasses.”

Oikawa must break every speed limit there is, as he gets there in record time. He hops out of his Mitsubishi, rubbing his hands together despite them being gloved, and quickly runs toward the figure slumped on the ground.

“God, it’s cold,” the brunet mutters. Kei raises his head as Oikawa stops in front of him, and the setter inhales sharply when he sees the deep gash on the blond’s cheek.

“You weren’t joking, were you.” It’s a statement, not a question, because Oikawa isn’t stupid, and he can tell Kei isn’t bleeding in humor. “No… oh, shit, Bo and Kuroo are—”

“And Akaashi, and Hinata,” Kei says dully. “They’re… still in there.”

Oikawa shakes his head, shocked and disbelieving. “Goddammit, Glasses, why did you call me? Why not 119?”

“If you were a 119 operator, and someone called you to a mansion full of dead people, where there is no visible assailant, who do you think you would blame? Go on, tell me.”

“Great! My friends are dead, and now I’m an accessory to murder!” Oikawa cries hysterically, throwing up his hands.

Kei glares at him. “Oikawa, with all due respect, you’re the best liar I know, and you’re the only one who can come up with some kind of cover story for this.”

“Thanks,” the setter drawls. “I love that reputation, I really do.”

“Oikawa!”

“Okay, okay, just let me think! Uh… Car! Kuroo’s car, that’s how you got here, right? If we dump their bodies in the car, we can shove it into the ravine behind the house. Then it’ll look like a car crash. We can say that we got worried when they didn’t come home, so we came here and found the wreck.”

The blond shudders. “You want to go in there?” _You want to see them broken and bleeding?_

“Well, what do you suggest? Would you like to sit out here in the cold and pray we discover telekinesis?” Oikawa chirps. His voice is sweet, but his eyes are acidic.

“You weren’t there,” Kei mumbles. He gets to his feet, wincing in pain when his ankle throbs, and cautiously takes a step onto the porch. He skirts around the hole he’d made when his foot broke through the aged wood, motioning for the other boy to come with him.

Overhead, the clouds cover the moonlight.

Oikawa grabs Kei before he steps inside, saying, “Wait, wear my extra pair of gloves. If we’re gonna stage an accident, we can’t leave prints behind.”

“They’re already on the phone,” Kei points out, complying with the setter’s order. “What about those?”  
  
“You have eyeglass cleaner? Use that. They can clean more than smudges on your lenses.”

Kei shakes his head, absolutely shocked at how fucking crazy this all is, and opens the door. He leads Oikawa inside, and the pair jump when the lights flicker on. Wind howls, and the door slams, locking them inside.

“Shit,” Oikawa gasps. “We’re fucking trapped, aren’t we?”

“Not if we do this fast,” Kei replies in determination. “Come with me; I need your help to move the clock.”

“Clock?” The brunet mutters in confusion, running after Kei. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow flit across the wall and yelps.

When they inch further into the living room, Oikawa sees exactly what Kei meant. Hinata’s tiny body lies trapped under a massive grandfather clock, and the setter can only tell he’s there because of the shock of orange hair and pool of congealing blood staining the plush carpet.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes. He knew what he’d been walking into, but seeing it is entirely different from hearing it. His stomach twists, forcing him to dry heave, but Oikawa can save his breakdown for later. He has a job to do.

Kei grabs one end of the clock and Oikawa takes the other. Together, they shift it far enough to pull Hinata free. Kei picks him up and gently shakes glass free from his hair. If he ignores the blood and misshapen curve of his body, the former decoy looks like he’s sleeping.

He’s so small. He’s so small when he isn’t jumping up and down, bursting with noise and vibrancy.

“Get Akaashi,” he chokes out, feeling himself tear up. “He’s lighter than Kuroo and Bokuto.”

Oikawa nods mutely and runs to the foot of the stairs, where he can see something out of the ordinary. Akaashi’s body is slumped there, crumpled on the bottom step like a marionette with its strings cut. Oikawa scoops the other setter up, shivering when he sees the bruises around his throat. He had been strangled.

He scurries back to the door just as Kei slams his shoulder against it. The old, rotting wood cracks under the assault, and both the blond and the brunet rush back into the night. Kei sets Hinata down near the porch, while Oikawa leaves Akaashi in the bushes, wincing at the sight of his fair skin being cut by thorns.

“Okay,” Kei huffs. “We get Bokuto together, and then one of us goes back in for Kuroo while the other finds his car. Deal?”

“Got it.”

They rush back in and Kei points upward. At the top of the staircase, only feet away from where his boyfriend had been, is Bokuto. The pair walk up the steps and grab the other boy, nearly buckling under his weight before they right themselves and start down the steps.

Bokuto’s head lolls to the side at an angle it shouldn’t, making Oikawa whimper in distress. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. Kuroo and I ran for that room over there,” Kei gestures behind them, “and he fell behind us. Then we heard him yell, and I stopped Kuroo from going after him… but it looks like his neck is, um, broken.”

Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut and nearly misses the final step. “This is the worst night of my goddamn life.”

“Likewise,” Kei replies. He twists around to look at the kitchen, just in case the ghost with the doll is there. Luckily, she seems to be gone, but he doesn’t want to risk her coming back.

“By the way,” he mutters when they’ve deposited Bokuto near Akaashi. “Stay away from the hole in the porch. There’s something underneath there.”

 _“Now_ you tell me,” Oikawa grimaces. “That means you’re getting Kuroo. I’ll find his car. Do you remember where you guys parked?”

“Somewhere near the ravine. Kuroo wanted to hide the car just in case the owner decided to make an impromptu visit. Be careful.”

The setter blinks at him. “That should be my line. Hurry up. Kuroo’s the one with the keys.”

Kei swallows hard and enters the house for what will hopefully be the final time. On his way up the stairs, he passes a mirror on the wall that definitely hadn’t been there before. For the split second his reflection should’ve been in it, the image of a brown haired girl appears instead, different than the ones terrorizing him prior. Kei yelps and starts taking the steps two at a time. _Just how many ghosts are there in this freaking house?_

He bursts into the study where he and Kuroo had tried to hide. Kuroo is lying exactly where Kei had left him, white feathers scattered around his body. The blond picks him up, almost staggering under the effort, and quickly checks the rocking chair for signs of the one who’d come after them. She isn’t there, although her book is lying open on the floor. Kei winces and leaves.

Holding Kuroo is like holding Hinata. If he ignores everything that just happened, it’s like the other is sleeping. Yeah, sleeping, with closed eyes and—

Unsteady breathing?

Kei almost drops Kuroo down the stairway, thinking he must have seen or felt wrong. But he isn’t mistaken. Kuroo is still breathing, his chest rising and falling periodically.

_What did she do? What’s the point of making him go to sleep?_

He grits his teeth. No time to dwell on it; he’s gotta get out of here. Approaching the door, Kei notices another mirror that hadn’t been there earlier. The girl in it blows him a kiss when he startles and runs back outside.

Oikawa is waiting near the bushes, hovering over Bokuto. He turns to Kei, who hastily blurts, “Kuroo’s still alive.”

“What?” The setter says in disbelief. Kei moves closer and lets him press a hand to the middle blocker’s chest. He gasps, both in surprise and relief.

“I don’t think he can wake up, though,” Kei continues. “The one who attacked him couldn’t have just put him to sleep. Not when they killed everyone else.”

“But it’s something,” Oikawa breathes. “He’s still here.”

“Yeah,” Kei mumbles. “Let’s… let’s get to work. Did you find the car?”

“Follow me.”

Oikawa leads him to the Toyota. As Kei had remembered, it’s right at the edge of the ravine, entirely inconspicuous when shielded by foliage. The setter slips his hand into Kuroo’s pocket and fishes out his keys. He unlocks and opens the driver’s door, helping Kei shift Kuroo into the seat immediately after.

“Now for the rest of them,” Kei says dully.

Not a minute later and Hinata is back in his arms. His heart twinges a little when he looks at the ginger. Barring Tadashi, Hinata and Kageyama were his best friends (even if he’d been loath to admit it in the past). If he concentrates, he can only just remember the way Hinata said his name when he was teasing him.

He places the ginger in the backseat, where he’d been sitting on their way here, and Oikawa sets Akaashi on the opposite side. Both of them fumble with the seatbelts, clearly shaky. It’s worse when they have to wrangle Bokuto into the passenger’s seat.

They back away, the stage fully set. All they have to do is tip the car over the edge, and they’re finished. Absentmindedly, Oikawa says, “There’s blood all over you.”

“Huh?” Kei glances down at his coat. It’s smeared with crimson from when he’d carried Hinata. The sight makes him lurch back in shock, and Oikawa clicks his tongue.

“Didn’t you notice it?” He murmurs. “But it’s okay— I have another jacket in my car. We can burn that one later.”

The blond nods and follows his partner to the white Mitsubishi, which is still parked in the middle of the path. Oikawa unlocks it and rummages around in the backseat, eventually emerging with a black coat that probably costs a good half of Kei’s tuition. He changes clothes, making sure to take back the cleaner and Kuroo’s phone. Kei then hands the bloodied jacket to the brunet, who jams it under the seat.

“Okay,” Oikawa huffs. “Now we get to the ‘accident’ part.”

Kei flinches at the reminder and walks through the trees, stopping in front of the Toyota. His eyes flicker over the occupants of the car: Kuroo, who had helped him become a better blocker; Bokuto, who had encouraged him in the silliest ways; Akaashi, who had been his solace when the others chattered too loudly; Hinata, the sun to his moon, who had been his teammate for three years. This is his goodbye.

Oikawa flits past him and stops in front of the driver’s window. He sighs, whispering something to Kuroo, before he braces himself against the car. Kei joins him.

“Three, two, one…”

They shove all their body weight against the Toyota. The push, combined with Kuroo’s already precarious parking— really, who stopped their car at the edge of a gorge?— tips the car over, and it falls away from them. Kei over-balances and drops to his knees, hearing the Toyota crash to the bottom just as he looks up.

He thinks he hears Oikawa muffle a sob.

For a minute, they wait. The wind buffets them. Then Kei smacks himself in the forehead, a horrible realization dawning on him.

“What the hell, Oikawa! We could’ve actually killed Kuroo! And if we did, it would’ve been on you!”

“What?! You just helped me! And you didn’t think of it before!”

“It was your plan!”

“Well, excuse me, Glasses,” Oikawa hisses. “So sorry I couldn’t remember every damn detail of covering up a murder! It’s not like I panicked or anything!”

He holds his phone out, using it as a flashlight, and starts making his way down the slope. The whole time, he mutters angrily, “Expecting me to do everything— and he helped me, the fuck! No thanks for being an accomplice in this…!”

Not wanting to be alone, Kei stumbles after him, almost tripping on exposed roots and stones. They reach the car, which is resting on its left side, and Oikawa hurries to the driver’s seat.

The setter sticks his hand through the shattered window and shines the light toward his teammate. Thankfully, his chest is still rising and falling. Kei groans in relief, missing Oikawa’s triumphant smile.

“Switch back your phones,” Oikawa urges, apparently over his irritation. “I mean, we have to clean his first, but that’s all we have to do before we get the hell out of here.”

Kei wrenches open the door and slips his hand into the pocket of Kuroo’s hoodie. He takes his phone back and withdraws Kuroo’s, handing it to Oikawa with the bottle of cleaner. While the brunet starts spraying the screen, Kei unlocks his own phone and pulls up the emergency call screen.

“Are… is everything done?” He whispers shakily. The magnitude of what he’s done is starting to crawl over him, letting fear cloud his judgment. There’s a battered car, he’s lost his friends, he’s going to have to explain what happened— oh god, _what is he going to tell their old team…?_

Oikawa straightens from where he’d been shoving the door back into place, his job obviously finished. “It’s as done as it’s going to be. There’s nothing we can do about what’s in the house. Hopefully, they won’t check in there.”

“There are so many ways this can go wrong,” Kei breathes. “You know there’s things we haven’t thought of, there are so many forensic measures that could tell the police what we did…”

The setter turns to him, his eyes glowing with the same dangerous intensity they possess on the court. “If it happens, it happens, Glasses. But for now, we’re gonna go back up that hill, we’re gonna call 119, and we’re gonna act like our fucking lives depend on it. Because they do. And if anyone tries prying after it’s over… we give them hell.”

Then he marches up the wall of the ravine. Kei runs after him, calling 119 on the way.

When the ambulances and police cars arrive, Oikawa bursts into tears and spins his story. Kei can only watch, amazed, as the authorities swarm around them. His friends are wheeled away, three of them covered in white sheets, and Kuroo is rushed to the hospital in one of the ambulances.

Somehow, Kei and Oikawa find themselves bundled in another with blankets wrapped around them. For shock, the paramedics say. The blond glances past Oikawa toward the mansion, drawing the scratchy fabric tighter around his shoulders.

The door, which had splintered under his shoulder only an hour before, is completely whole. And distantly, Kei can hear a girl giggling, even above the howl of the wind and the cacophony of his own thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Kenma blinks at the boys in horror as Tsukishima trails off. “That’s terrible. I can’t imagine having to do that…”

“We didn’t think we had a choice,” Tsukishima replies. “There’s no way anyone would have believed us if we told them the truth; we had to make up _something_. You’re the first person we've told, and honestly, I’m only explaining this because Oikawa thinks it has something to do with Kuroo. I don’t trust you at all.”

“I don’t either, Pudding,” Oikawa grumbles. “Lucky for your meddling ass, I know that Tetsun’s power wasn’t meant to be used like this, and— ugh, I shouldn’t have done it, but the last time I went to visit him, I listened in when his parents were talking to the doctor. His body is deteriorating. Rapidly.”

Tsukishima startles, obviously unaware of this. “No, it can’t be. It’s only been a few months!”

The brunet continues bitterly, “They said it was best to pull him off life support. His mom was completely against it, but that was almost a month ago. I don’t think it’s happened yet, because Kuroo-san would’ve called me and his other friends.”

“But it might,” Kenma finishes. “It might happen.”

Oikawa looks at him. “Go, Pudding-chan. I’ll give you the room number and everything. Go save Kuroo, before it’s too late.”

With more conviction than he’s ever had about anything else, Kenma says, “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One to go! I'm crying...
> 
> Also, for clarification, this is Kuroo's sequence of events: 
> 
> 1\. He was born with the power of dream drifting. It actually runs in his family, but they hadn't had a child born with it in so long that they'd practically forgotten it was a thing.  
> 2\. Prior to being attacked, Kuroo mostly used it to mess around. He would pop into his friends' dreams and harass them.  
> 3\. Then he was attacked by the ghost with the book. What she actually did was tear Kuroo's soul from his body. If he had been a normal person, his soul would have been lost and his body probably would have died within the week. However, because of his ability, he saved himself. Kuroo jumped into dream after dream (the hall with the rows of doors was his starting point) and decided to help people, because he kept seeing problems. Unfortunately, this left him with amnesia.  
> 4\. Finally, Kuroo ended up with Kenma~


	7. 7: i miss you (i still believe that we will meet again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! It's over!
> 
> This is only the second multi-chapter fic I've ever finished, and poetically enough, one year ago today was when I finished my first full work! (And I know one of you actually read that. Dear god, please tell me my writing has improved...)
> 
> Once again, thank you to my HQBB team and to everyone who regularly supports my writing. Writers power fandom, but readers power us. I hope you enjoy the epilogue!
> 
> Title taken from the opening line of Dreamcatcher's "I Miss You," which I mention specifically because it was their Japanese debut.

Kenma leaves Tsukishima’s apartment and rushes to the train station as fast as his overworked body can take him. He skids into the terminal and buys a ticket for a bullet train. It’s a half-hour’s ride to the hospital, which seems like the blink of an eye when compared to other means of travel. But it makes Kenma scowl. Each passing minute is time wasted.

He pops a violet pill and forces himself to fall asleep as the train leaves the station, for only enough time to deliver a message. When the room materializes, he runs to Red— no, _Kuroo’s_ — side. The dark haired boy smiles at him, somewhat wan.

He’s transparent. Kenma grits his teeth. No, this can’t be happening. He’s not ready to let Kuroo go.

“Red,” he says, “will you do something for me?”  
  
“What’s that face for? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kuroo teases. He gives Kenma another shaky smile, and his form flickers.

“Don’t joke about that!” Kenma hisses.  He turns away and swipes at his eyes, screaming internally about how unfair this is. Kuroo had been hurt, he’d lost his friends and himself in the same night, and now he could _vanish._ And he’s cracking fucking jokes while he’s at it.

“Hey, hey, Kenma, don’t cry. What is it?” The dream drifter asks.

Kenma squares his shoulders. “I need you to say with me while I’m awake. Can you do that?”  
  
Frowning, Kuroo says, “It’ll be really hard. I don’t think I’ve ever tried; as I am, I’m not supposed to exist in the waking world. Why?”   
  
“It’s important,” Kenma pleads. His voice cracks pitifully on the last syllable. “Please, just try. It won’t be for long, I swear.”

“If it’s something you need, of course I’ll try,” Kuroo assures him.

But he grimaces when he thinks Kenma isn’t looking. The blond squeezes his eyes shut, knowing just how much effort it will take for Kuroo to maintain his form when he’s already so weak. If the student doesn’t get to the hospital fast enough, Kuroo could disappear only a few meters away from his body.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, and as he’s done so many times before, Kenma yanks himself back into reality. Unlike in the past, though, he can now feel Kuroo’s presence lingering in his mind.

Kenma bounces his leg and gazes out the window, trying to commit the whir of blinding color to his and Kuroo’s memory. _If I don’t make it, please, let this be the last thing he sees. The outside world might be passing us by, but it’s there. It’s something._

The train pulls into the station and opens its doors. Without any regard for the other passengers, he takes off, only sparing enough time to check his phone for the room number Oikawa had given him and activate Google Maps.

 _Tokyo General Hospital, Room 312. Tokyo General Hospital, Room 312,_ he repeats like a mantra.

Kenma feels a pang of confusion that isn’t his own, likely Kuroo wondering why the hell he’s being dragged to a hospital. Kenma can’t answer him, so he bolts. The crowds of people part for him for the first time in his life, repelled by his urgency and pained expression. He doesn’t feel the need to apologize for his bright, pervasive existence right now.

Brokenly, Kenma realizes that’s what Kuroo had wanted. That was the real reason he’d come to him. The dream drifter must have seen not only the loneliness that had shaded Kenma’s life, but the silent wish he’d had to never exist. And he’d sought to change it, because he was kind enough to want to help people he didn’t even know.

Kenma bursts through the sliding doors of the hospital and blows past the receptionist, who cries out in surprise. He’s sure she’s probably sending security after him as well, but he doesn’t care. Ignoring his aching legs and burning lungs, he takes the stairs up to the third floor.

The coma ward is as stagnant and immobile as its patients. It’s eerily silent there, only peppered with the soft footsteps of passing nurses and the beeping of monitors. But this quiet world is about to get a lot of noise.

He rips open the door to Room 312. There, huddled under a thin green blanket, is Kuroo’s body. It looks fragile, delicate and frozen. A touch could break him apart.

Kenma scrambles over to the bed, feeling Kuroo’s surprise saturating his mind. He leans over the dark haired boy and speaks directly into his ear.

“Your name is Kuroo Tetsurou! Now wake up!”

_Please work, please work…!_

Just as he says it, a doctor rushes in, followed by two stern security guards. One of them takes him by the arm and admonishes him. He begins to drag Kenma out of the room, prattling on about hospital protocol and visitor’s lists.

Kenma hears nothing over his pounding heartbeat, and he digs his heels into the linoleum floor. Snapping something indistinct about leaving him alone— which clearly pisses the doctor off— the blond fights to stay with Kuroo. Normally, such a situation would leave him in tears— hell, normally, Kenma would never attempt something like this.

Now? The programmer can’t give less of a shit what someone thinks about him.

The heart monitor starts beeping faster, and the angry voices cut off abruptly. Kenma holds his breath. The doctor scurries to the machine and frowns at the readouts, leaving the security guards and a desperate Kenma hovering at the door.

Kuroo’s eyes flutter open. The doctor backs away, shocked, and Kenma collapses in relief, nearly taking a guard down with him.

“I caught you,” he sobs. “The chase is over.”

The dark haired boy makes a wheezing sound that could be interpreted as a laugh, trembling under his blanket. Kenma gives him a watery smile and scrubs the tears from his cheeks.

He lets the security guards drag him away, and although he knows he has a lot of questions to answer, at least Kuroo is finally _breathing_ again.

Kenma had made it.

 

* * *

 

The next few days fly by.

The doctors examine Kuroo, apparently flummoxed by his sudden awakening. They decree that he is well enough for visitors, and after a good amount of pleading and cajoling and promising to _never disturb the other patients again, sir,_ Kenma is allowed to stay with Kuroo, too.

Currently, he’s perched on Kuroo’s bed, idly playing with his fingers. It’s strange, feeling skin and muscle and bone where there was previously the equivalent of aerogel.

“What are you so fascinated by?” Kuroo asks. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen a hand before.”

“Shut up. It’s different, seeing you in the real world and not in my dreams,” Kenma retorts.

Laughing, Kuroo says, “I’m teasing, kitten. I know.” His hand curls around Kenma, warm and solid and _real._

The programmer smiles softly. He likes being with Kuroo even more now that it isn’t all in his head. Is this what friendship feels like? How nice. Kenma finally understands those protagonists from shonen manga.

“Yahoo, Tetsun,” someone cheers, knocking on the door. The two boys turn and see that it’s Oikawa, with a harried looking Tsukishima in tow.

“Tooru, Tsukki!” Kuroo says delightedly. “Get over here, you bastards!”

Oikawa takes that as an invitation to tackle the former spirit. Kenma bounces off the bed and goes to stand beside Tsukishima, who is awkwardly fiddling with a gift bag.

“This is the first time you guys have visited, right?” He asks the taller boy. Tsukishima nods, setting the bag on the side table.

“We thought we’d give him time with his parents first. And I guess you were there too.”

“No place I’d rather be,” the programmer replies. He tunes back in to Kuroo and Oikawa’s conversation.

“—and you and Iwaizumi are back together! I’m so glad!”

 _“Back_ together?” Kenma asks. “You two broke up? From your Instagram, it was impossible to tell.”

“Yeah, his social media is a shrine to his boyfriend,” Tsukishima says snidely.

“First of all, get _fucked,_ Glasses. Second, you are one creepy child, aren’t you, Pudding-chan? I knew setting all my accounts to private was a good idea,” Oikawa screeches, hopping off Kuroo to put his hands on his hips. “But if you must know, at the time of the ‘accident,’ Hajime and I were fighting. So that was a really, _really_ shitty week for me.”

That dampens the mood. Tsukishima fidgets with his fingers, two of which are inexplicably taped together, and asks, “Kuroo, did the doctors— or maybe the cops, if they came— ask what happened to you?”

“They asked, but I tricked them into telling me their version of events, figured out that someone made up a plausible story, and rolled with it,” Kuroo says. “They kept saying I’d drunkenly driven off a cliff, though. Didn’t like that much.”

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening, Oikawa explains, “After Tsukishima made it out of the house, he called me. We put all of you into your car, and pushed it into the ravine. The easiest way to cover up whatever happened in that house was to pretend it was all… well, all your fault.”

“It _was_ my fault,” the boy mumbles. “I may not have crashed my car, but I’m the one who suggested we go to that stupid mansion. If it weren’t for me, Bo, Akaashi, and Hinata would still be alive.”

“It was _not_ your fault!” Kenma denies sharply. “You couldn’t have possibly known that place was actually haunted!”

“I should have suspected,” counters Kuroo. “You know damn well that I’m not normal. I’m practically a ghost myself!”

“Tetsun, are you the one who dropped a clock on Chibi-chan? Did you break Bokuto’s neck yourself? No, you _didn’t._ So don’t blame yourself,” Oikawa says.

Tsukishima comes and sits on the black haired boy’s bed, softly adding, “What’s done is done, Kuroo.”

“I know,” Kuroo whispers. “I’ll go… go visit their graves when I get out.”

Kenma and Oikawa join the other boys on the bed. For a moment, they all lay there in silence, paying their respects.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Kenma is forced to return to his life. As much as he wishes the world would stop for him, that simply isn’t possible. He and Kuroo decide to exchange numbers and text each other regularly, at the expense of Kenma’s attention in class.

(It’s okay, though. Some things are more important than school.)

The day draws to a close. Lev approaches him as the students flood out of the building.

“Hi, Kenma! Are you better, now? You got super weird after the party,” the Russian chatters.

Kenma snorts. There was a lot to unpack, under that blanket statement of “weird,” but he might as well throw away the whole bag. “I’m fine. Everything’s under control.”

“That’s good! Hey, do you want to come to practice again?”

“Maybe not today. Let’s exchange numbers. Then I can tell you when I want to come,” Kenma replies. The other boy beams and hands over his phone.

The blond inputs the number, returns Lev’s phone, and then pauses, eyes scanning over his own screen. Huh. His phone’s contact list is slowly filling up.

He supposes that Kuroo achieved his goal.

Kenma waves at Lev as he leaves the campus and returns to his apartment. He yawns in the midst of unlocking the door, wondering if he has time for a nap. He’d stayed up late last night (caught between messaging Kuroo and programming the demo for the horror game).

Luckily, he doesn’t have that much homework due tomorrow, so the game developer happily crawls under his covers. Sleep settles over him like a warm blanket, and Kenma closes his eyes…

…only to awaken in his room.

Somehow, the blond can tell that this isn’t the real world. He cannot explain how he knows; if asked, he would likely mumble some indistinct nonsense about the ambience and the color of his walls. He hops off the bed, walks to the door, and throws it open to reveal a void. In the middle hovers a blue sphere, orbited by countless strips of film.

And Kenma knows, of course he knows, that that is the core of his memories.

A boy is standing next to the core, dressed in a hospital gown and tossing an apple up and down. He catches Kenma’s eye, letting the fruit tumble into the abyss.

With a cheeky grin, Kuroo Tetsurou says, “Hello, kitten. Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Kenma's fond of unsafe self-medicating. Don't do that.
> 
> Aerogel is a compound used as insulation. It's also referred to as "solid smoke," so there's the metaphor.
> 
> That's a wrap! Drop a comment, and feel free to check out my other works!

**Author's Note:**

> God, once more, lavish Serah and Bucky with praise for helping me with this and giving me that gorgeous drawing!
> 
> This bad boy is mostly done. I only have a few supporting scenes left to write, so the rest of the chapters will be on their way soon. I've been mightily inspired this Winter Break.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Drop a comment!


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